The Angel's Selfish Beast
by jayilyse
Summary: You're wondering when she'll let go. She hasn't dropped your hand yet. But then again, you haven't dropped hers either. Your palm and hers are sweaty, but she keeps it in her grasp, leading you. You two walk in silence. Only the crunching of dirt, the cracking of branches, and the subtle sound of the wind filling the otherwise noiseless air.


What does it mean to care?

You don't know.

If it's something akin to being concerned for others then you truly do not care. If it's something like showing kindness, the result is the same. There's no reason to do that. There's no advantage to it. It makes one weak. All in all, you think it's a secondary factor to the abysmal fate of humanity. Emotions, in general, are fatal. It irks you to no end. Devoid of emotion. Complete indifference. That's how you want to be. That's how you survive. Emotional – and physical – reliance on anyone else is out of the question.

Then what's with you and Christa, Ymir?

That's another thing you don't know. You shouldn't be anywhere near her. How did you wind up by her side every day? Well, it wasn't too long after you met when you started to realize that she was similar. You pinned what it was quite a bit ago. She's selfish too, in a way. Her martyr complex is terribly, terribly selfish. However, you won't let her die. Under her smile you see someone who wants honor – glory. Yet, there's a legitimate kindness in the way she smiles at everyone; how it encourages them to keep moving forward and be strong. You can admire the last part, at least. And that's why you'll protect her, even though she embodies almost everything you think of as weak. On the other hand, one trait isn't worth your risking your survival. You didn't join the army to babysit her; this is not how you planned to be in this new life.

Christa's not someone you should be thinking about.

Currently, you're sitting beneath a tree on the outskirts of the base, past the barbed wire. The shade is cool compared to the heat that was battering against your skin during training today. The day is on the fringe of dusk, the sky's colors a mix of a dusty gray, yellows, and reds. There's a couple clouds left, partially obscuring the fleeing sun. You motion to stand and manage to do so. Yawning, you begin to stretch out your legs. You had been sitting cross-legged for a long time. Though they're a bit numb, you turn, walking toward the path back to camp behind the overgrown bushes and trees. One has to pull them apart to go back. Your hand reaches for the bush's branches, but something stops you. You hear a twig crack. Something's there. Abruptly, you jump back, putting your fingers around the hilt of the knife hidden in your uniform; it's most likely harmless. It sounded like human footsteps. However, it's best to be on the safe side. Seconds later, to your not-so-surprise, someone pops their head out of the foliage. It's who it is that actually surprises you.

"Christa?"

Christa smiles, her roundish cheeks lifting to create crinkles by her eyes.

"There you are. I've been looking for you."

Usually your first reaction would be suspicion. Who, what, when, where, why. No one looks for you. Except Christa, apparently. You don't respond with anything more than a short "mmm", yet you can't help it when you feel the edges of your mouth curl upward. You weren't going to ask why she came here; you do want to know, but she answers the question on her own.

"You didn't tell me where you were going. I got worried."

You feel a slight twinge and unconsciously reach up to tug your pony tail. She's the last person you want to make worry. You wanted some alone time – for once you forgot to tell her and you're not in your usual location. You nod.

"Sorry about that."

"What are you doing out here, anyway?"

You wonder what you should tell Christa. It wasn't like you were doing anything other than sitting here. You go with the answer you typically use because of what happens when you don't. If you don't answer she'll briefly take her hand in yours and squeeze. You don't need her touch right now. She'll ask if you'll tell her later. Your response is always yes. You may be selfish, you may not care about anyone, but you're no liar. Most of the time you tell her when it seems irrelevant and she doesn't remember that you could've been thinking about it previously.

"Thinking."

You know what she's going to ask next. It's what she always asks.

"What were you thinking about?"

Would it be wise to tell her right now? There's no way to casually bring this up in conversation – that you were thinking about her in general. Your mouth is becoming dry. She might ask about it. Could it come off as your usual teasing? Right now you aren't sure it will.

Don't do it, Ymir.

Don't say it.

"You."

You think you pulled the smirk off well. Christa avoids your gaze, looking to the ground, and blushes. Guess it worked. A moment passes, two, before she takes a few strides toward you. She's continues looking at the dirt when she grabs your hand. What is she doing?

"Come on, let's go back."

She tugs you a bit, keeping a firm grip. Christa's palm is somewhat calloused. You ponder what her hand might have felt like if she never became a soldier; it might have been more delicate. You're pulled from the thought when she starts walking, dragging you along with her. You suppose if you really wanted you could drop her hand. You're curious as to what she's doing though. Her palm is encased in yours, her fingers clasping the back of your hand; yours did the same thing to her hand without you knowing. Her back is turned to you now – she's heading for the bushes. You guess she's just leading you back. She doesn't need to hold your hand for that. The path back to the base isn't too long. It isn't even that complicated.

You're about halfway down – you can see tracks from other people. You're wondering when she'll let go. She hasn't dropped your hand yet. But then again, you haven't dropped hers either. Your palm and hers are sweaty, but she keeps it in her grasp, leading you. You two walk in silence. Only the crunching of dirt, the cracking of branches, and the subtle sound of the wind filling the otherwise noiseless air. A sudden stop – you were paying attention to her so you didn't bump into her like others would have. What's the reason behind her stopping? You wait, patiently for once, until you hear her take a breath, like she's preparing for something. Then, softly, Christa speaks.

"Can I, um, sleep with you tonight?"

Your eyes widen; the weather is cooling down, yet you feel the heat once again. You weren't prepared for that. Sleep? With you? What's she up to? There seems to be no motive. There has to be, though. Besides, what happens when the two of you wake up and the others see you like that? You're not worried about yourself – you couldn't give less of a shit about what they think of you. However, Christa will care. You'll just have tell her the pitfalls of this.

"You'll have to sneak into my bed."

She's quiet. You know she's listening. You pause slightly before you keep going. You're unsure about how to say these things. You can merely say it bluntly, per the usual.

"You'll have to wake up early to leave it. What if someone catches you? You should think this –"

"So you don't want to." she says, her tone making you think she has answered her question for you.

The words linger in the air for short time. That's something you hadn't asked yourself, really. What _do_ you want with Christa? That's a stupid question. You knew what you wanted the minute she asked. It's just not a good idea – it's idiocy at its finest, but –

Ymir.

Ymir, don't. Listen to yourself. Don't set yourself up for this.

"You can."

Christa's body goes from stiff to relaxed. She sighs. Maybe out of relief. You sigh too – barely audible.

What have you gotten yourself into?

It's a while before both of you get back to the barracks. The hues of dusk have taken their leave and allowed the jet black of night to take their place. Soon, you're in front of the door; she lets go of your hand right before you enter. Her heat stays on you even without her touching you. Once you're inside you clench and unclench your hand over and over, staring at it. No one bothers you because everyone knows to stay away from you. Plus it's late. Everyone wants to sleep. When you're out of your reverie, you walk over to your bed only to notice something odd. The wooden floor boards below are old and every one of them creaks. The building is rickety, too. The government didn't want to spend precious money to make the barracks look pretty. But there's no sound coming out now. You glance at the floor. Huh. Looks like they've been screwed down. There are some squeaking noises from other parts of the floor. Why screw down part of it and not all of it?

You shrug it off. Who cares? You open your drawers to get your sleeping clothes – a tank top and a pair of plain looking pants. All the soldiers have them for pajamas. You're not done changing when everyone blows out their candle quicker than you expected. Mentally cursing, you look for your bed in the dark. It's a bottom bunk, and one would think you'd find it easily, yet you bump your head on the frame; although it doesn't hurt a grunt escapes your mouth. You slip into your bed, situating yourself near the wall, and cover up with a blanket. Is she really going to go through with this? Certainly someone will wake up the minute she tries to cross the room from her bed to yours. However, you hear tiny footsteps and not a single sound other than that.

Hold on.

Those screws are used in the 3D maneuver gear. And the one person who had to have their gear fixed this week was Christa. She didn't say what was wrong with it; you just watched while she got it repaired. You noticed she had to tinker with the screws in it. You thought nothing of it. Then, a drill from the shack disappeared. All of you were forced to do an extra twenty laps around camp each day until someone returned it. It was only gone for a little over a week. Come to think of it, the screws looked like they were placed by an amateur and they followed a pattern – that led straight to Christa's bed. You had asked for a lot of alone time recently; did she do it then? She would have had to go under the building to the sub floor to do it. How long has she been planning this?

Suddenly, the sheets and blanket move. In a matter of a second your body goes stock still. But when you feel Christa's touch, and an arm over your waist, your body relaxes, for the most part. Her warmth radiates into you – your breath stops. You're convinced you won't ever breathe again. When you inevitably do it's shallow. Her body's not entirely on you yet. You can only concentrate on three things. Your breath, your mind buzzing, and her heartbeat lightly pulsing. You notice it pounding – your heart. Her hold is loose. Is she nervous? Most likely. And you? You're feeling. You shouldn't be feeling, except here you are doing it. You're scared. Every fidget, every twitch Christa makes, creates an ache in your chest.

You spend what seems to be years like this. There's a war waging in your head. You know which side is winning, however, you can't let that side win. What you want versus what Christa needs. Except it's so, so tempting when her head rests against your back. Her hair tickles when she moves to do so. She rubs her nose and forehead against you, back and forth. You have no idea what she's –

Wait. Is that – is she nuzzling you?

She is.

Your face is red; you're thankful for the darkness at this point. She's snuggling even closer, inching her body towards you until it's fully aligned with yours. Resistance is probably no longer an option. Christa's arm curves around more, trying to encourage you to come closer to her. You ease into her touch instinctively. Why does she want this? The fact is that she does. She wouldn't have asked if she didn't. Not to mention the forethought she put into this. What will happen if you give in to this? She'll be happy. You know that. Yet, what's the cost? Her comrade's respect? What will she gain? You? That's not a fair trade.

But she'll be happy.

Isn't that what matters?

You remove Christa's arm from your waist with as much care as possible, treating her delicately. You take your time turning on your other side. Trying to make as little noise as possible, you face her. The arm originally tucked in between your back and her body is crossed over the arm you removed. You attempt to make out her features in the dark. It's hard to see, despite how close she is. Only the outline of her body and her hands are clearly visible. She breathes in slow, sniffles, and uncrosses her arms; she's repositioning herself as if she's going to leave – shit. You know you should let her. It's the best thing for her.

Yet, no matter what you say, you want this. More than anything. It's selfish to do this to her. However, isn't being selfish what you're best at?

Something stirs inside of you. She's almost up when you grab one of her hands with one of yours. You intertwine your fingers with Christa's and squeeze gently. It's different than earlier – desperate and more intimate. You hope it'll make her stay. She stops, leaning on her elbow for a moment. Once again, you try to discern the expression on her face. Forever and a day passes before she squeezes back, lowering herself back onto the bed. The back of one of her hands rubs her eyes, and the other has her thumb on your hand. You shift your level to match hers, so that your faces are right front of each other. You can see her visage a little better now, but not by too much. You stay like this for a long period of time. You don't realize how much time passes before she rests her forehead against yours, holding your hand tighter. You quickly glance up and down between her eyes and her lips. The former attracts you. The latter seems inviting. That, though, is forbidden. It's too bad that they're coming closer and closer to yours.

She gives you a small peck on the lips. They're a little chapped, surprisingly. It doesn't last more than a few seconds; you kiss her on the forehead in return. Using her free hand, Christa gently touches your eyelids, indicating that she wants you to shut them. You indulge her, allowing her to kiss you on each one. As the kissing progresses downward, your legs become intertwined with hers. You eyes open and you kiss her on the nose. She doesn't kiss your lips again; however, her lips are considerably close. Her breath is combining with yours and you can't say that you don't like it. You notice the dimples on her cheeks. After that it turns quiet. Comfortably quiet.

Christa mutters something, though. Almost as if it were to herself. She's staring at you. It's obviously directed at you, except you shouldn't have heard it.

"I love you."

Fuck.

Did she just say what you think she said?

You don't have to ask her to say it again to know. You keep silent as she closes her eyes. Love is a human-only emotion. It's the most human emotion of them all. You don't even remember if you were originally human before becoming the beast you are. Sixty long years in that nightmare really fucked up your memory. Someone like you doesn't deserve love, especially if you don't know if you can have that feeling. You can't give her what you don't have. Why would she want it from you, of all people? Shit, you don't even know why she stays. Or why she always asks about you; how you are, what you're doing, how you feel. In all actuality, you don't want to admit it; you're a beast. You think you're terrible half the time for not telling her what you are. You will tell her – eventually. But Christa has to come to terms with herself first. That's the deal.

You keep your expression blank. For now she can't see you. Gradually, the light of day breaks the darkness in the room. That's when you take in Christa's face completely. It doesn't seem like she has fallen asleep.

Then why does she look so peaceful?

There's a small smile etched on to her face. Her hair is draped around her face as the morning's dim glow surrounds her. You gulp; she's beautiful. As soon as that thought comes into your brain, her eyes, somewhat unfocused, open and she gives you a lazy grin. fighting back is futile; you smile back. Based on the amount of light, basic exercises will start in an hour. Christa, letting go of your hand, accordingly fiddles with the blanket until she's in a position to properly get out. She turns her body away from you. Her legs dangling off the bed, she angles her head so she can see you. She opens her mouth to speak.

"Good morning."

It's hard to think of something witty to say when you're running no sleep.

"Mornin'." you say, your voice raspy.

Twisting her body a bit she clasps her hand in yours once more, lifts it up to her mouth, and kisses it tenderly.

"That was nice, wasn't it?" She says, keeping her voice low.

It was. You can't deny that. You smirk at her and she cracks another smile.

"Well, I'm going to go sleep for a little. You should too; you didn't get any."

"And whose fault is that?"

Christa's face reddens as she releases your hand; she stands, checking the floor to make sure she's on the parts that are screwed down.

"I'll see you later, Ymir."

Her face is away from you now. Your smile doesn't reach your eyes this time.

"Sleep well."

As she walks away you turn over on your side so that you're in front of the wall again. There's a strange sense of emptiness in your bed. You hadn't seen her as happy as that in the past couple of months. Was that the right thing to do? It wasn't. Was it kindness you showed her or was it based on your whims? It doesn't matter now, you suppose. What does matter is if Christa can survive training today. She's going to be the death of you one day – the way she beams at you, the way light encompasses her being; how all you want to do is shield her from as much pain as you can. Death by an angel. Ironic.

If she faints you'll help her. You don't mind. Funny; the angel's protector is mankind's worst enemy. You're drifting off into what you know is going to be a dreamless sleep. You ask yourself one thing before you do.

What does it mean to care?

You don't know.


End file.
